


To The Sky

by pink_shoes



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-22
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2018-04-27 15:50:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5054701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pink_shoes/pseuds/pink_shoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Flamewar is called to attend a meeting of Megatron's generals, and assumes it will be just as boring as the last hundred were. But when a newly-promoted seeker named Slipstream takes a liking to her, Flamewar is forced to reconsider her policy of never letting anyone get too near to her spark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The primary continuity here is G1, but I've brought in TFA Slipstream (though she's not a clone here, just another seeker) and Timelines Flamewar (though I guess that's like a subsection of G1). You'll see bits and pieces from other continuities here as well. Try not to think too hard about it.

It was only a quarter-joor into first meeting of the first solar cycle, and Flamewar could already feel her optics dimming. At the front of the room, Shockwave droned on about something while all of Megatron’s best officers fought desperately to stay awake. 

Flamewar risked a glance at her lord. He was staring resolutely at Shockwave’s presentation, as if it all meant something to him. To his right was Soundwave, who seemed to be paying attention—but with that mask and visor, who could say?—and to his left was Starscream, who wasn’t even pretending to listen as he scribbled away on a datapad. 

Perhaps, if Flamewar was very lucky, Starscream would soon attempt to assassinate Megatron with the aforementioned datapad and they would all get a short break while their leader beat the insubordinate glitch into submission. Or perhaps…perhaps Starscream would catch Megatron by surprise, and come closer to success than he ever had before, in which case it would be up to Flamewar to save her lord’s life and finally put an end to that traitorous seeker once and for all, and Megatron would be so thankful that he would ask what she wanted as a reward and then she would say something like, “Being your soldier is reward enough, my Lord.” And then he would say, “Nonsense, I insist.” And then she would dim her optics and—

Well. One could dream. 

Flamewar glanced around at the other occupants of the room, all called from their stations across the galaxy to attend the meeting in person. She recognized most of them—there was Scorponok, and Bludgeon, and Stryka, and Sixshot, and (as usual) an empty chair where Overlord should have been seated. Flamewar knew from long experience that he probably wouldn’t turn up until the last solar cycle of the conference, if he even came at all. 

Under ordinary circumstances, it would have been a massive security issue to have all of Megatron’s generals gathered in one base, but the Autobots would not attack now. Today was the start of a religious deca-cycle, and both factions had always observed it as a sort of informal break in the fighting. 

Unfortunately, rather than getting to enjoy a short reprieve, Flamewar was forced once again to endure ten solar cycles of plans and presentations and strategies. The whole thing struck her as very Autobot, though she’d never say so out loud. Decepticons were notoriously independent, and to sit in a meeting for an entire deca-cycle talking about the future seemed to be the antithesis to everything they stood for. 

Megatron asked Shockwave something, and Starscream immediately snapped something at Megatron. Flamewar didn’t catch what it was, she was too occupied by her daydreams—but there was no missing Megatron’s reaction. 

Flamewar checked her chronometer. Half a cycle into the meeting, and they were already gearing up for a fight. That was a new record for the day, though not for the deca-cycle. She rested her chin in her servo and allowed her optics to dim as Lord Megatron and his SIC spat insults and threats at one another. She considered sending a comm to Nightracer, her SIC, just to make sure all was well on Chakar, but decided against it.

Across the room, a different seeker caught Flamewar’s optics. She had an alien altmode that Flamewar didn’t recognize, probably a vehicle of whatever world she was stationed on. She was violet with bright teal detailing, and her lipplates were painted in high-gloss charcoal grey. She looked just as bored as Flamewar was.

Upon realizing she was being watched, the seeker met Flamewar’s gaze evenly, and a small smile spread across her lips. Flamewar felt a twinge of annoyance—typical arrogant seeker!—but she had to admit it was more interesting than the brewing fight. 

“All of you, out!” bellowed Megatron at last, the cannon on his arm whining as it began to charge. Nobody needed to be told twice, and Flamewar let herself be swept up in the press of larger war frames hurrying for the nearest doors. 

Once outside, the hallway cleared fairly quickly, as if everyone was afraid Megatron would change his mind and call them all back in again to be bored some more. Only the seeker from earlier remained. She was leaning against the wall, watching Flamewar expectantly. 

“I wasn’t expecting to see a civilian-spark here,” the seeker said at last. 

“Then I suppose it must be your first conference,” retorted Flamewar. “Because I’ve been one of Megatron’s generals for vorns.”

The seeker’s wings twitched and swept downward in what appeared to be a very relaxed motion. “You’re right,” she said agreeably. “Sunwing’s trine was offlined in battle a few stellar cycles ago. My trine replaced them. Unfortunately, it seems this—” the seeker waved her hand in the general direction of the conference room, “—comes with the territory.”

Flamewar was taken aback. She had honestly been expecting an insult of some sort. Even after all her vorns of service, there were still some mechs who saw her as an easy target because of her civilian spark. Setting them straight wasn’t difficult, she’d long ago learned all the best way to get an advantage over a much larger frame. But it did get tiresome. 

She knew she could have modified her frame to compensate for it, piling on mods and upgrades until she could practically pass for a military-spark, but Flamewar preferred to be small and energy-efficient, even if it did mean all of her colleagues and subordinates towered over her.

“I don’t think I know your designation,” said Flamewar at last. 

“Slipstream,” said the seeker. “Let me buy you a drink.”

Despite the fact that it was still early, the bar was crowded. Most of the Decepticons that had been at the meeting had made their way in for lack of anything better to do, and the noise level was high when Flamewar and Slipstream walked in. Their entry went unnoticed, though, and they managed to find adjacent seats at the bar, where Slipstream ordered some terrible sounding jet-grade concoction. Flamewar decided to take advantage of being on a base with excellent resources and no immediate subordinates around and asked for a delicate high grade with a liberal quantity of cordierite flecks mixed in. 

As they waited for either their drinks to arrive or a fight to break out, whichever came first, Flamewar felt compelled to speak. 

“So your trine lets you buy drinks for grounders?” she asked, raising her voice a bit to be heard over the noise. 

“My trine isn’t here,” said Slipstream. Noting Flamewar’s surprised look, she added, “They can manage on their own for a few solar cycles. I threatened to bring them along if they torqued me off, though.”

Flamewar felt herself laugh before she could suppress it. The unfamiliar sensation made her tanks feel odd and cramped—when was the last time she’d allowed herself to laugh? Thank Primus none of her subordinates were here. It would ruin the image she'd worked so hard to maintain.

“Contrail probably wouldn’t mind at all, actually,” mused Slipstream. “She loves boring scrap like this. Maybe next vorn I’ll step on a landmine and have to send her in my place. I just don’t know where I’ll find a landmine.”

“W—what?” asked Flamewar, alarmed. Then, only belatedly understanding the joke, a second, smaller laugh escaped her. 

Slipstream looked at her in surprise. “Either you’re somehow overcharged already, or I’m doing really well.”

“You just surprised me,” said Flamewar defensively. Something in her tone seemed to strike at Slipstream, but fortunately their drinks were set in front of them before the seeker could respond.

“Since you brought it up, I’m not…with my trine,” said Slipstream after a few klicks of silence. “Most seekers aren’t. It’s a Golden Age stereotype. I won’t say it never happens, but it’s rare. Especially now, since most of us were just assigned to each other.”

“You didn’t pick your wingmates?” asked Flamewar. 

“No. Ages ago, when I first joined, I filled out some sort of personality assessment. They said it would help them assign me, but I don’t know if they actually used it. For all I know, it’s sitting under a tin of purple paint in an office somewhere.” Slipstream shrugged, and Flamewar tried not to stare at her wings. “Sometimes it felt random. The trine assignments, I mean. But some were good.”

Flamewar realized that Slipstream had probably had dozens of trinemates throughout her military career, with new seekers replacing the ones that offlined after every battle. It was morbid to think about. 

“I’ve never commanded aerial units directly,” said Flamewar at last. “I didn’t realize.”

There was a shout and the sound of breaking glass from behind them as a fight finally broke out. Slipstream and Flamewar both turned to watch it for a few klicks, partially out of curiosity and partially out of necessity—there was no guarantee it wouldn’t spread to the rest of the room. 

“Well, we have almost a joor until the next meeting,” said Slipstream at last, not taking her optics off the brawl. “My room here has a decent view, it you’re up to seeing it.”

Flamewar looked up at her in surprise. “You’re moving quickly.”

“Jet. Sorry,” Slipstream flashed a crooked smile at her. “Never mind, I’ll find some other way to entertain us for a joor.”

“‘Us?’” Flamewar repeated.

“You and me. Or just me.” Slipstream shrugged. “You don’t have to stick around. But I might follow you if it sounds like you know where they’re hiding all the interesting scrap. Or—” Slipstream’s optics suddenly lit. “How big are you?”

“Excuse me?” huffed Flamewar, but Slipstream got off her barstool to examine Flamewar’s frame. 

“I think you’ll fit in my cockpit,” proclaimed Slipstream. 

Flamewar spat out her drink. Fortunately it was the last mouthful. _“What?”_

“Don’t be like that, have you ever flown? I mean really flown, not just had a ride from some boring transport—”

“No, and I don’t plan to!” 

Slipstream looked honestly disappointed. “You’re missing out.”

“Says the jet.”

A funny smile came over Slipstream’s faceplates. “Wait—you’re not _scared,_ are you?”

“What!?” Despite Flamewar’s outrage, Slipstream could barely hold back her laughter. “How dare you! You think just because I have wheels I’ll purge my tanks if my pedes leave the ground? I’ve jumped out of speeding shuttles onto battlefields!”

“Oh, good,” said Slipstream. “Then you’ll like this.”


	2. Chapter 2

It took a bit of mass-shifting, but it turned out that Slipstream’s assessment had been correct: Flamewar did indeed fit inside her cockpit. 

[Now, don’t touch anything,] warned Slipstream over her internal speakers as Flamewar eyed her control panel.

“I’m not an idiot,” Flamewar retorted, and placed her servos in her lap. Slipstream’s engines roared to life, sending vibrations down Flamewar’s frame. In a matter of moments, they were in the sky, shooting towards the edge of Decepticon territory. 

Flamewar looked down, but the organic plants below were already beginning to blur together into a mass of deep green. It was not long before she could no longer see the ground at all, only blue skies and silver clouds. 

Slipstream spun through the air, causing Flamewar’s digits to dig into her seating. But something about the speed and the altitude was getting to her, and a laugh escaped her vocalizer.

Slipstream seemed encouraged by the sound, and increased the power to her thrusters as she began another aileron roll. Flamewar’s processor felt light and dizzy, as though she was overcharged. No wonder seekers were always so—

“Ready?” asked Slipstream. 

“For wh—?”

To her horror, Flamewar could hear the sound of a t-cog engaging. Slipstream was transforming, transforming _around_ her without slowing down in the slightest. Flamewar opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out. She was flying through the air with absolutely no means of support. She offlined her optics and waited for death. 

But Slipstream caught her by the servos. If they had been stationary, she would have only succeeded in tearing Flamewar’s servos from her wrists, but Slipstream seemed to have an understanding of velocity that Flamewar could not begin to comprehend. 

Time seemed to slow as Slipstream ignited her thrusters and spun them in graceful circles. Flamewar allowed herself to laugh and tilted her helm back, enjoying the odd, rushing sensation. Logically, Flamewar knew that they were falling, but in that moment, it felt as though her frame had suddenly learned to fly under its own power.

Slipstream released her servos, and for one moment Flamewar was free. But then the seeker wrapped her arms around Flamewar’s waist, pulling her so close that Flamewar could feel her powerful sparkbeat under the amber glass of her canopy. 

Slipstream turned her thrusters to full power so that they could hover in midair. 

“Not so bad, was it?” Slipstream murmured to her, brushing her lipplates against Flamewar’s face. 

“You—you didn’t tell me you were going to do that—” Flamewar gasped. Slipstream was regarding her with a soft smile. 

“Sorry,” Slipstream said. “I like surprises.”

Flamewar found herself at a complete loss for words. Slipstream just grinned and transformed back into jet mode. Flamewar was back inside her cockpit before she’d even had time to completely register what was happening. 

“Don’t do that!” gasped Flamewar.

“Aren’t you having fun?” 

No. Maybe. She wasn’t sure. How could she tell? Fun was practically an alien concept to her. Megatron’s best generals did not have fun, unless one counted killing Autobots. 

Slipstream seemed to sense her indecision. “Had enough? I can take us back to base.”

“Yes,” said Flamewar. Though, if she was being honest with herself, it was less out of a desire to be back on the ground and more because she was starting to get annoyed with her stupid broken logic center failing to react properly to anything. 

The flight back to base was far more sedate, and Flamewar could sense a little twinge of worry in Slipstream’s energy field. Flamewar tried to think of something to say, but she had always been terrible at idle conversation. 

They landed, and Slipstream transformed around her one last time. Safe on the ground at last, Flamewar took a few awkward steps to regain her balance. 

“You’re alright?” asked Slipstream. 

“Of course,” said Flamewar. “That was…” Flamewar stopped as a host of conflicting adjectives presented themselves simultaneously. “…ah…”

Slipstream arched an optical ridge. “That bad, huh?”

“No, I—that’s not what I meant,” said Flamewar, who suddenly, irrationally, did not want to hurt Slipstream’s feelings. “It was unexpected. That’s all.”

“Have you really jumped out of a shuttle?” asked Slipstream. 

Flamewar’s optics darkened. “You think I’m lying?”

“No!” said Slipstream too quickly. Then: “What did you land on?”

“Ultra Magnus.”

Now, finally, it was Slipstream’s turn to gape. “Oh, you’re such a liar!”

“I am not. Ask anyone.” Flamewar shifted. “See this arm?”

“Yes?”

“It’s the only part of my frame they were able to save.”

Flamewar imagined that she could see Slipstream’s processing whirring behind her optics. 

“It wasn’t terrible,” said Flamewar quickly. “The flight, I mean, not my arm. It was…I don’t usually…” she paused to structure her thoughts, and thankfully Slipstream did not interrupt. “It was nice to get to do something that wasn’t work. It’s been a long time. I’d forgotten.”

Some of the worry left Slipstream’s energy field. “Oh,” she said. “Good. I was afraid you might hate me.”

“Of course not,” said Flamewar. She began to walk towards the main entrance of the base, and Slipstream followed her. The guards asked for her identification, but not Slipstream’s. Normally such behavior would prompt a lecture, but for some reason Flamewar could not muster up even a flicker of irritation today.

* * *

Slipstream hadn’t lied—her room had an impressive view. It was in the upper levels of the base, and the room had clearly been designed with seekers in mind because it was large enough for three and a massive window framed the horizon.

This region of the planet was heavily forested, and Flamewar stared out over the treetops to the distant skyline. Slipstream came up behind her and embraced her. 

“Nice, isn’t it?” asked Slipstream, but Flamewar was not sure if she meant the view or the way her claws were now playing across Flamewar’s chassis. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Flamewar immediately mistrusted the compliment. “If I’d said no, you’d be here with someone else instead.”

“Maybe,” said Slipstream. “Maybe not. I don’t think there’s anyone else here who would fit in my cockpit.”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it.”

Slipstream leaned down and kissed the side of her helm. It felt oddly intimate. “Why are you so determined to believe I’m only using you for my own gratification?”

“What other reason is there?”

“Maybe I like you.”

Flamewar could not help but make a sound of incredulity. “You don’t know me. You’d change your mind if you did.”

Slipstream put her servos on Flamewar’s shoulders and turned her around so that they were facing one another. Then Slipstream gave her a searching look. “What do you mean?” asked the seeker. 

“Just what I said,” Flamewar suddenly felt as though she was being interrogated. “I’m not a very likable being.” 

“I disagree,” said Slipstream. Her gaze was intense, almost unnervingly so. Flamewar simply shrugged. She did not need to prove herself to anyone, especially a seeker. 

Slipstream leaned in close, one large servo wrapping around Flamewar’s comparatively tiny waist. Her other servo went to Flamewar’s lipplates, teasing. Flamewar tilted her helm back and allowed herself to enjoy the sensation of large, gentle servos on her frame.

“Well,” said Slipstream, “you’re not doing a very good job of proving me wrong.”


	3. Chapter 3

Slipstream onlined gradually, aware that there was something small and warm pressed against her. She glanced down at the recharging grounder draped over her frame. 

Thunderblast had sent her a few query pings in the past cycle, so Slipstream took an image capture of Flamewar and sent it to her trinemate. The response from Thunderblast was almost instantaneous. 

[She’s so cute!] cooed Thunderblast. [Contrail! Contrail look!]

Slipstream could visualize Contrail’s sneer. [A grounder,] their other trinemate said dismissively. [She’s probably covered in mud.]

[She’s tiny! Tiny tiny! Tiny little bike!] Thunderblast was babbling as though she’d just spotted a cyberkitten. [Slipstream, you have to bring her back with you!]

[That’s not happening, unfortunately,] said Slipstream, absently stroking Flamewar’s arm. [Though I think she could use some time away from her station. I’ve got to run to a meeting now. Let me know if anything comes up.]

Slipstream cut the connection and very gently shook Flamewar online. Flamewar gazed up at her blearily, but her optics cleared once she remembered where she was. 

“The meeting,” said Flamewar, sitting upright so quickly that she almost hit her helm against Slipstream’s. She slid off the berth, rubbing anxiously at a spot of turquoise paint on her chassis, and disappeared into the washracks. 

“Do you want help?” called Slipstream. 

“Help _yourself_ ,” commanded Flamewar, her tone leaving no room for pleasanter interpretations. Slipstream looked down at her own frame, streaked with ebony and crimson, and saw that she had a point.

Slipstream stretched languidly, her digits brushing the ceiling. Then she got up and followed Flamewar into the washracks.

The water, at least, was warm—there was always a risk that it wouldn’t be, in Decepticon bases. Slipstream grabbed a cleaning cloth and began to work at the black spots on her chestplate. There wouldn’t be enough time to touch up her paint afterwards, but she doubted anyone would notice. Nobody had the time or energy to keep themselves meticulously painted these solar cycles.

Flamewar finished first and went over to the mirror to examine her reflection. Slipstream watched her out of the corner of her optic. Thunderblast was right—she _was_ tiny. Slipstream wanted to go over and hold her, but Flamewar’s energy field was already beginning to sharpen once more. 

Flamewar turned around and caught Slipstream staring. “What?” she demanded. 

“Just looking,” said Slipstream with a languid smile. “Aren’t I allowed?”

Flamewar threw her cleaning cloth at Slipstream’s faceplates. “Hurry up. You don’t have much time.”

“You know, I’ve never met anyone who was _less_ relaxed after an interface,” observed Slipstream. 

“Do you want an award?” Flamewar left the washracks, and Slipstream trailed after her with a drying cloth. 

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” pressed Slipstream. Flamewar had given no indication that she was injured, but with the size difference between them, she knew it was a possibility. 

“Of course not,” snapped Flamewar. Then, unexpectedly, her expression softened. She pressed a servo to her forehelm. “Look, it wasn’t terrible, but we shouldn’t do this again.”

“Wasn’t terrible?” repeated Slipstream. “Can I get that in writing? I want to brag to everyone.”

Flamewar’s optics hardened again. “Don’t you ever take anything seriously?”

“Of course I do,” Slipstream drew her wings up and forced her faceplates to become cool and neutral, just to prove that she knew how. “You think just because you’re an officer, you’re not allowed to have a personality?”

“It’s different for you,” said Flamewar, her vocalizer full of resentment. “You’re a seeker. Nobody’s looking at you and waiting for you to frag up so they can say they knew all along you didn’t belong—”

“You kicked Ultra Magnus in the face!” cried Slipstream. “From above! That has to count for something, doesn’t it?”

Flamewar gave her an odd look. “I never told you I hit him in the face.”

“I found a recording,” Slipstream explained. “It wasn’t hard. It’s all over the datanet.” Frankly, Slipstream was shocked that she had never seen it before. She put it down to the fact that they were stationed on opposite sides of the galaxy. 

“You’re right,” added Slipstream in a softer voice. “I don’t know what it’s like to be practically the only one of my sparktype in the whole army. I have no idea. I’m the opposite. Aerials are common as dirt, and seekers are practically interchangeable. Nobody even cares when one of us dies, because there’s ten thousand more. They just sort us into threes and…” Slipstream raised her servos in a gesture of defeat. “You know. Cannon fodder.”

Flamewar seemed to consider this. 

“But nobody should be as alone as you are,” added Slipstream. “Isn’t there anyone you trust, back at your post?”

“I don’t know,” said Flamewar. She crossed her arms across her chassis and looked away. “We need to leave, or we’ll be late.”

The second meeting was no more interesting than the first had been, but now Slipstream was finding it even more difficult to focus. Flamewar was very deliberately not looking at her, and had taken a seat far enough away that Slipstream could not reach out and touch her. 

Slipstream thought about what Flamewar’s experience as a civilian-sparked Decepticon must have been like. At least three-quarters of the Autobot army were civilian-sparks, including the Prime himself. That Flamewar had chosen the Decepticons over her own kind meant that she had managed to realize how terrible the Senate was, even though she had not been part of the most oppressed castes. What had Flamewar witnessed that caused her to break away?

To amuse herself, Slipstream pulled up the aforementioned recording of Ultra Magnus catching Flamewar’s pede with his faceplates in the middle of a battle. The clip cut off before Ultra Magnus got his bearings and, according to the comment section, punched through Flamewar’s chassis. 

_Not bad for a civvie,_ read the most recent comment.

* * *

Flamewar retreated to her rooms after the solar cycle’s meetings. She had not made optical contact with Slipstream once, and was proud of herself for that.

What had she been thinking, to allow someone to interface with her? She had never let her guard down like this before, not once since she’d joined the Decepticon army. Attachments were just weaknesses to be exploited. Everyone knew that.

She had half a mind to go down to the medbay and ask the medics to delete all her memories from that morning. 

But…Slipstream had been so gentle, gentler than she’d have thought any seeker capable of. And afterwards, instead of throwing her out, she’d wrapped her arms around Flamewar and held her close to her warm, massively powerful engine. 

_Nothing good will come of it,_ she reminded herself harshly. 

There was a knock at the door, and Flamewar answered it. To her surprise, Slipstream was standing in the doorway, looking hopeful.

“Yes?” Flamewar tried not to sound _too_ icy, but she failed.

“Are you busy?” asked Slipstream. “I was hoping we could talk.”

“I know what you were hoping,” Flamewar replied flatly. “I wasn’t protoformed yesterday.”

Slipstream shook her helm. “I mean it,” she said. “I’ll leave if you want me to, but there’s not much else to do around here.”

Nightracer had sent her a status report a few cycles ago. Flamewar had intended to spend the evening reviewing it, making sure all was well back at the base. But…there probably wasn’t anything terribly pressing in it. If there was, Nightracer would have commed her directly. 

“Alright,” said Flamewar grudgingly, stepping back from the doorframe. “But just talking. Keep your servos to yourself.”

Slipstream followed her into the room slowly, and the door slid shut behind her. Flamewar sat down in a chair that overlooked the room’s single window, and Slipstream, perhaps mindful of the tension, sat at the empty desk in the opposite corner. 

“Are you certain I didn’t hurt you?” asked Slipstream. 

“What?” asked Flamewar, taken aback. 

“Earlier.” Slipstream looked at her, searchingly. “You acted so differently afterwards. You can tell me the truth if I did. I won’t be offended.”

“If you’d hurt me, I’d have made sure you knew it,” said Flamewar. “I’m not angry at you. I’m angry at myself.”

“Why?” asked Slipstream. “I’m not your subordinate. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Flamewar wasn’t sure how to explain. Something told her that Slipstream would never understand. 

“I dislike being vulnerable,” said Flamewar at last. 

“Really? I couldn’t tell,” Slipstream gave a crooked smile. “But I’m not planning to take advantage of you.”

“I only have your word on that,” Flamewar pointed out. She stared at Slipstream’s amber cockpit to avoid meeting her optics, then realized this might actually be _worse._ She turned her optics to the window. “And now you’re here, trying to forge even more of a connection. You have to admit, it looks suspicious.”

“Yes, so suspicious, to want to be near to someone I just interfaced with,” said Slipstream. 

“That meant nothing.”

“I said I wanted to be near you, not that I wanted to perform the Conjunx Ritus,” said Slipstream. “Here, we’ll talk about something else. Tell me why you joined the Decepticons.”

“The same reason you did,” Flamewar snapped, her patience evaporating.

“Really?” Slipstream leaned forward. Her optics seemed to smolder, like she was a heroine in a Golden Age romance. “You and those of your spark-type gradually had your rights restricted over the course of many vorns, until finally your home city was bombed by the Senate?”

“You know what I meant,” Flamewar argued. “Just because the worst of it didn’t happen to me doesn’t mean I didn’t see it.”

“Plenty of civilians saw it,” said Slipstream. “But only a few stood up and joined the Decepticons.”

“I know,” said Flamewar. “I lost my sister to the Autobots.” She regretted the words as soon as she had spoken them—who knew what Slipstream could do with this information if she was determined? 

But Slipstream paused thoughtfully. 

“I think,” she said at last, “that you’re not nearly as mean as you like to pretend you are.”

“And I think you’re far ruder than you believe yourself to be,” retorted Flamewar. “So I suppose we balance each other out.”

Slipstream laughed, clasping her servos together. Her digits were long and slender, distractingly so. “I’m not attacking you, you know,” she said. “If you won’t believe that I’m not out to manipulate you, at least believe I’m not criticizing you.”

Flamewar looked out the window and did not respond. 

“In fact, I rather admire you for being able to leave your own kind,” Slipstream continued. “That must have been extremely difficult.”

“Not at all,” said Flamewar coldly. “My family was infuriating. I was glad to be rid of them, and they were equally pleased to see me go.”

“Then they were idiots,” Slipstream said. 

Flamewar gave a short, sharp laugh, “Well, I cannot dispute that.”

Slipstream grinned at her, her energy field relaxing, and Flamewar felt her own field doing the same despite herself. Her resolve was slipping, but perhaps it wasn’t such a terrible thing. She found herself wishing that there was no so much distance between their frames. She wished she could ask Slipstream to come closer without feeling like a fool. 

But perhaps she did not have to ask. Perhaps the request was spelled out on her faceplates, because Slipstream gave her a curious look and asked, “Are you reconsidering?” in a low voice. 

Flamewar dimmed her optics. “Perhaps.”

“If you want me to stay, I will stay,” said Slipstream. “But I’m just as willing to go. The choice is yours.”

Instead of replying, Flamewar reached out her arms for Slipstream, and Slipstream rose from her chair. She approached Flamewar carefully, almost deferentially. 

As soon as she was near enough to touch, Slipstream settled onto the ground in front of Flamewar, though their size difference only meant that their helms were now level. Slipstream’s servos went to Flamewar’s hips, feeling for the panels that covered her interface hardware. They retracted under Slipstream’s soft touches. 

Slipstream rose up onto her knees and captured Flamewar’s mouth in a kiss. Flamewar could feel the warm air of Slipstream’s vents on her torso, an oddly intimate sensation. As Slipstream worked to unwind Flamewar’s connector cables, Flamewar reached for Slipstream’s wings. She drew her servos across them, teasing the underside with long, slow strokes.

Slipstream reacted almost immediately. She swept her wings downward, pressing them firmly into Flamewar’s servos, and deepened the kiss. When she finally pulled away, it was only to murmur something in gentle Vosian. Flamewar did not know the meaning of the words, but Slipstream's tone was remarkably, worryingly affectionate.

Flamewar turned her helm to the side and decided she had not heard the words at all. But she needn’t have worried, for Slipstream pressed her lipplates to the base of Flamewar’s neck and said nothing more for a very long while.

* * *

The days began to follow a pattern. The meetings were inevitable, though occasionally Primus was merciful and they would be cut short. In their free time, Slipstream and Flamewar would escape to their quarters, or Slipstream would coax her into another flight, or Flamewar would go for a drive while Slipstream hovered over her, so ridiculously overprotective that Flamewar suspected one of her creators must have been a shuttle.

Flamewar hadn’t been so naive to think their actions were going unnoticed, but she had not believed that anyone would truly care. But on the fourth day of the conference, Megatron pulled her aside after a meeting. 

“A moment, if you would?” asked Megatron in a low voice as the other Decepticons exited the room in a rush, all relieved to be free at last. 

“Of course, my lord,” said Flamewar. Slipstream gave her a curious look, but left with all the others when Flamewar did not return her glance. The room emptied in a matter of moments, leaving the two of them alone. “Have…have I done something wrong?”

“You know you have not,” said Megatron. “I only wish to verify that all is well?” When Flamewar only gave him a blank look, he added, “You have been spending a great deal of time with that seeker. Slipstream. I am aware that she has significant physical advantages over you. If you are finding her advances to be unwelcome…”

“My lord!” Flamewar sputtered. “I don’t—that is—”

“I do not enjoy interfering in the personal lives of my soldiers,” Megatron said. “But I know you. I know you dislike asking for aid. But a situation like this should not be handled alone.”

“It’s not like that,” Flamewar protested. “Please. Believe me. I know it seems…uncharacteristic…but I do not mind her company.” Upon hearing the words leave her vocalizer, Flamewar felt her spark heat with mortification, as though she had made a profession of undying love. “Am I dismissed?”

Megatron gave a nod, and it took every ounce of her self-control not to transform into her bike mode and hurl herself out the nearest window at maximum velocity. Instead, she turned and walked away at a painfully sedate pace. 

“And Flamewar?” Megatron called after her. 

“Yesssss?” she asked through gritted dentae. 

“If the situation changes, you will inform me.”

Flamewar vented deeply. “Of course, my lord.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe it's time I finished this thing, huh?

The deca-cycle had finally reached its end. And to Flamewar’s great surprise, she was not looking forward to returning to her station as much as she had in past vorns. 

Slipstream was still in recharge, one of her arms curled curled around Flamewar’s waist. Flamewar shifted a little, and Slipstream made a soft noise of complaint. 

“No,” murmured Slipstream, her optics still offline. “Not yet.”

Flamewar did not respond. It had been a deca-cycle, and she was still struggling to label her feelings for Slipstream. 

As though she had heard this thought, Slipstream pressed her faceplates to the back of Flamewar’s neck. “I’m going to miss you,” she whispered. “So much.”

“You’ll forget,” Flamewar whispered back. “Give it a lunar cycle and you’ll forget.”

“No!” said Slipstream with surprising intensity. She sat up, suddenly completely online. “Flamewar…”

“Don’t,” said Flamewar. 

Slipstream made a soft sound of disappointment and pulled Flamewar closer for one more embrace. 

“Just, try not to forget about me too quickly, alright?” asked Slipstream with a wry smile. 

“I make no promises,” said Flamewar, but even she could hear the warmth in her vocalizer. 

Slipstream leaned down and kissed Flamewar’s lipplates.

* * *

Flamewar’s return to her post was quiet and unceremonious. Nothing of note had happened in her absence, and none of her soldiers seemed any different than they’d been before she left. She quickly went back to her old routine as though nothing had ever happened.

But Slipstream commed her regularly, at least once a solar cycle. Flamewar did not always respond immediately but she had to admit the calls were a bright spot in otherwise dreary and unremarkable solars.

If Nightracer or any of the others noticed that Flamewar was a little less tense and snapped at her soldiers less frequently, they did not mention it.

The Autobots had not been completely idle in her absence, however. Patrols had spotted spies just outside the perimeter of Decepticon territory, but none had been successfully captured yet. Flamewar had announced that whoever brought back a spy would be rewarded. She was looking forward to finding out what they were up to. 

But two deca-cycles passed, and nobody brought Flamewar a live Autobot. She found herself growing impatient, and it was because of this that she eventually decided to join one of the night patrols and handle the matter herself. 

Chakar was peaceful at night, or at least the area surrounding the base was. The two other mechs on sentry duty were obviously tense and awkward because of her presence, but Flamewar ignored them. She hardly needed them there at all, she thought. Only protocol had stopped her from going out unaccompanied. 

The natives of Chakar were annoying creatures, but they seemed to dislike the Autobots and Decepticons equally, and were wise enough to keep their distance most days. Flamewar was glad for that. Even the most pathetic of races had an advantage on their home worlds, and outposts on both sides of the war had been destroyed by sufficiently determined natives across the galaxy. 

Something nearby made a rustling sound. Flamewar gazed into the nearby forest, switching her vision to infrared in hopes she’d pick out a Cybertronian silhouette. But either no one was there, or he was regulating his core temperature to thwart such easy detection. 

“Do you see someone?” asked one of the soldiers. 

“Quiet,” Flamewar commanded in a low voice. The brush rustled again. A native animal? She drew nearer, slowly. Infrared should be showing her _something_. 

[Hey,] said Slipstream over long-range internal comms. Her voice was warm and hopeful. Flamewar cringed internally. She’d forgotten to tell Slipstream she’d taken a night shift. Well, she would apologize later. Flamewar muted the channel and walked closer to the trees. If someone was there, she would—

With a burst of movement, something exploded through the underbrush, followed by the unmistakable sound of a transformation sequence. Flamewar cried out in delight, knowing that tonight she would have her prisoner at last. 

She transformed into altmode and shot through the trees after the Autobot, leaving her two companions behind. The woods were dense and unfamiliar, but she was small and maneuverable enough to dodge most of the obstacles.

The Autobot was still either masking or artificially modifying his core temperature, but Flamewar followed the sound of his engine and the flattened path he left in his wake. He had to be damaging himself with every organic object he collided with. He would run out of energy soon enough. And she would be there when he did. 

The woods came to an abrupt end, and Flamewar sped out into a clearing. Now she could see him with her external sensors. It was either a Chakari land vehicle, or someone trying to pass himself off as one. 

Flamewar transformed back into robot mode, drawing her weapon as she did. The other vehicle merely sat there, either too injured to transform or hoping she’d mistake him for a true Chakari vehicle.

“Surrender, Autobot,” she called. “You’re on my territory and—” 

Something slammed against her helm, sending Flamewar to the ground. The entire world blurred and Flamewar instinctively sent out a distress call on every open channel she had.

[Flamewar?] Slipstream’s frequency was suddenly filled with concern. [What’s happen—?]

Flamewar attempted to push herself up onto her servos, but the world was spinning and she could barely muster up the strength. Where were the guards? Where were the two soldiers she’d left behind? 

Something struck her helm again and the world went dark.

* * *

“You fragging idiot.”

Flamewar’s vision returned slowly. The world was out of focus and sideways, and someone unfamiliar was speaking. 

“You bolted. Why the pit would you do that when you were perfectly concealed? Were you planning on leading her back to the camp?”

“Minefield,” protested a second voice, “it turned out okay, didn’t it?”

“Only because I was there to save your aft, Speedbreak!”

Flamewar dimmed her optics so that a casual observer would not be able to tell that she had come back online yet. She was in a cell, the bars glowing with electricity. Just beyond them were two Autobots: a large femme with some sort of truck altmode, and the mech she had pursued into the woods.

The two Autobots turned to look at her and Flamewar deactivated her optics again.

“Are you sure that’s her?” asked the mech. “She’s so. Little.”

“Yes,” said the femme flatly. “No question about it.”

Pedesteps drew nearer and Flamewar activated her optics just enough to see Speedbreak walk up to the bars. His faceplates and energy field were young, naïve. No wonder he had panicked.

“Careful,” warned Minefield. “She’s significantly more dangerous than she looks.”

“She’s still in stasis.” Speedbreak gazed at her for a moment longer. “Wait. Is she a civilian? She looks like a civilian.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Minefield. “A Decepticon is a Decepticon in my book. No matter what kind of spark she has.”

“Yeah, I know,” Speedbreak turned away from the bars so that his back faced Flamewar. It also, conveniently, prevented Minefield from noticing her optics were now online and at full power. “But isn’t it weird?” 

Flamewar lunged at Speedbreak’s back, catching him around the neck with her arm and dragging him back. He screamed as his frame collided with the electrified bars. Flamewar tried to keep her own frame away from the bars, but it was impossible to avoid a shock. She gritted her dentae and told herself that she only had to outlast the Autobot. 

“Speedbreak!” shouted Minefield.

“Do something!” Speedbreak shrieked. He attempted to twist free but he was already weakened by his damage from earlier and Flamewar was fueled by rage. She laughed and slammed his helm against the bars.

“I suggest you let me go before his brain module is entirely melted!” she called to Minefield. “You might still save him if you act quickly.”

Minefield shot forward and grabbed Speedbreak around the torso. She shouted as the electric shock struck her frame, but it was not enough to prevent her from wrenching her comrade free of Flamewar’s grasp.

The two Autobots landed in a pile on the floor, too far away for Flamewar to reach.

“I warned you she was dangerous!” bellowed Minefield in Speedbreak’s faceplates. 

“You said she was dangerous, not that she was fragging insane!” Speedbreak cried, but his voice broke on the last word. He slumped forward, the last of his strength gone, and covered his faceplates with his servos. Minefield appeared to relent. 

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s get you to medical. Come on.” She swung one large arm under his shoulder for support and slowly helped him out of the room.

Flamewar watched them go.

* * *

They were taking her to Cybertron. She had been informed of this from a safe distance, but not reacted at the time. She expected the Autobots were hoping Megatron would be willing to trade something for her safe return.

They might also try an interrogation. But Flamewar had already purged every security code and password she knew from her processor cycles ago. That didn’t mean she was completely without information that the Autobots would find interesting, but at least their networks would remain secure. 

Flamewar considered the situation on Cybertron. Iacon was the Autobot stronghold, well-fortified and sitting on countless vorns worth of energon—though rumor had it that even that ancient supply was finally running low. She wondered what would happen when Cybertron finally went dark. 

It was a chilling thought. Perhaps home would never be home again. 

Flamewar sat down on the metal slab that served as a berth for the cell. Perhaps she should recharge, in case they were planning an interrogation. 

Perhaps she ought to start on her apology to Lord Megatron. She opened up a new document on her HUD but no words came. 

Her thoughts drifted to Slipstream, that brief moment of panic before Minefield had knocked her into stasis. She regretted not answering the initial comm now, even though that was an absurd thing to regret. There was no reason to answer a personal comm while on patrols. 

The Autobots had deactivated her comms, so there was no way she could tell Slipstream that she was relatively safe for the time being. She wondered if Slipstream was worried about her.

Flamewar forced herself not to think about that. She rubbed at a spot on her chestplate where the paint had warped and melted from the electrobars and tried to initiate a recharge sequence.

* * *

They landed in Iacon a few cycles later. Flamewar was escorted, under heavy guard, into an Autobot base where every single mech regarded her with hateful optics and sneering lipplates. But nobody came too close. It seemed that her reputation preceded her.

They took her to another cell, down in the lower levels of the base. This one had bars of pure energy—there would be no touching them, not without doing terrible and immediate damage to herself. She sat down on the slab, nearly identical to the one on the ship, and settled in to wait. 

After about a cycle, the door opened and Flamewar looked up, expecting to see one of her old adversaries—Elita One, Ultra Magnus, or someone of similar station. But instead, the figure in the doorway was…tall, and red, probably some sort of transport…

“You!” hissed Flamewar, her frame wrenching itself upright of its own accord. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“I work here,” said Firestar flatly. As she drew nearer to the bars, Flamewar saw that her elder sister had not changed so much since they’d last seen one another. She still had a Cybertronian altmode, yellow faceplates, and bright blue optics. 

Flamewar laughed. “Cute. Here to gloat? You were smart to come immediately, in that case. I won’t be here long.”

“Flamewar, stop it,” said Firestar. “Stop being a glitch for two klicks and talk to me like a normal mech.”

“What do you want me to say?” Flamewar demanded. “I don’t regret anything. I don’t regret standing against injustice.”

“I know,” said Firestar. “I…I know. But listen to me. This Prime is different. Optimus is a good mech. You’d respect him, I know you would.”

“You’re glitching. Go find yourself a medic.” Flamewar walked away from the bars and reclined back on the recharge slab. “Or don’t. I don’t care.”

“Flamewar, you can do better than this.”

“ _I_ can do better!?” Flamewar shrieked, sitting upright again. “I am one of Megatron’s generals. You are a transport drone!”

“This transport drone is on the winning side,” said Firestar. 

Flamewar laughed scornfully. “Are you just going to spew propaganda at me?”

“Megatron failed you. The war is ending and your side is slowly starving to death. I’m giving you a chance at freedom! You—you’re not a warframe. If I vouch for you, my commanders will listen!” 

The desperation in Firestar’s voice surprised her. But Flamewar did not care. They’d both made their own choices, and Flamewar would not switch factions if her very spark depended on it. 

“I’m supposed to just turn my back on my faction because I was fortunate enough to have the right sparktype?” demanded Flamewar. “If I was a seeker, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“But you aren’t.”

“You sound like the old senate,” sneered Flamewar. “I’m worth ‘saving’ because I’m a civilian underneath my armor. It has nothing to do with the sort of mech that I am. No wonder you can’t hold on to your aerials.”

“What are you even fighting for anymore? The old system was destroyed and this Prime is different.”

“Have you not been listening to a word I said? The fact that you’re wasting so much time on trying to convert me is proof that this Prime is no different from the last!”

“Do you _want_ to be turned over to interrogation?” Firestar demanded. 

Flamewar went quiet for a few klicks.

“I’m not scared of them,” she said at last.

It wasn’t a complete lie, but it was not the truth, either.


	5. Chapter 5

Slipstream was not concerned when Flamewar did not immediately respond to her comm. She understood that she might be busy, or just not in the mood to talk. 

But that quickly changed when she received the distress call. It was from Flamewar’s frequency, wordless, with coordinates that Slipstream could never hope to fly to under her own power. 

[Flamewar?] asked Slipstream. [What’s happening? Are you alright?]

Silence. Slipstream got up and began to pace the room, hoping that the signal had been sent accidentally, that any klick now she’d get a second message from Flamewar telling her not to worry, that she was sorry for startling her. 

But no message ever came.

Slipstream clenched her fists and forced herself to be rational. Even if Flamewar was in trouble, what could she do? They were at opposite ends of the galaxy. No doubt Flamewar’s mechs were already rushing to her aid. Her soldiers were capable, and she was resilient. She would be fine. 

She had to be fine.

Slipstream picked up a report to distract herself, but she found herself gazing at the glyphs without comprehending them. She could not focus. She would not be able to relax until she received confirmation that Flamewar was safe.

But how long would that be? If Flamewar was injured, if she was in stasis lock, it could be solar cycles before she was repaired enough to send Slipstream a comm. Slipstream couldn’t wait that long. She’d go mad. 

And what if it was already too late? What if her spark had already joined with the millions of others that had been casualties of the Great War? What if she was permanently deactivated, like the many trinemates whose designations Slipstream only remembered in occasional recharge fluxes?

Slipstream’s spark seized. No, Flamewar wasn’t dead. She couldn’t be. 

She was not going to call Chakar. She was _not_ going to bother a far-off Decepticon base with her ridiculous, hysterical imaginings. She was…

Slipstream opened up her internal communication software and checked the listing for Chakar. There was a frequency for general contact. Slipstream deliberated for a moment longer, then activated it.

It took about a breem for anyone to respond to her initial query. Slipstream spent the entirety of that time pacing around the room and chewing on her datapad.

[Nightracer here,] said a cold, bored-sounding voice at last. Slipstream removed the datapad from her mouth and spat a few chewed-up bits of silicon onto the floor. 

[This is Slipstream of Vos, commander of the Decepticon forces on Femax,] Slipstream began. [I have—]

[Hold, please,] said the voice. Before Slipstream could even protest, the channel went silent again.

“Fragging pit,” Slipstream muttered aloud, pressing both servos to her forehelm. Just then, the doors slid open and Contrail and Thunderblast entered the room together.

“Hey, what’s the matter?” asked Thunderblast. “Helmache?”

“No,” muttered Slipstream. “Frag. Frag, frag, frag.”

“What, right now?” asked Thunderblast. “I can’t, I promised Contrail we’d be exclusive.”

Contrail reached out and smacked Thunderblast’s shoulder vent. 

“It’s Flamewar,” said Slipstream. “I think she’s in trouble.”

“That grounder? Are you still talking to her?” Contrail wrinkled her nasal ridge. _“Why?”_

“I hope she’s alright. She’s so small and little and tiny!” Thunderblast wrung her servos. “What are you going to do?”

“What can I do?” asked Slipstream. “I can’t just leave my post. And even if I could, it would take too long to get to Chakar for me to be of any use.”

Her wingmates looked sympathetic, but they all knew that there was nothing they could say. There were no false reassurances to be had, not when they had been living the realities of war for so many vorns. There was nothing to do but wait.

In all, it was about a cycle before Nightracer returned to comms. Slipstream had nearly given up hope when the channel flared back to life. 

[Nightracer here. Are you still there?]

[Yes!] cried Slipstream. [I have received an alarming message from General Flamewar. Do you—]

[You what?] There was a hint of a sneer in Nightracer’s voice. [Who the frag are you and why is Flamewar sending you messages?]

[I already told you my designation, my rank, and my station,] Slipstream snarled. [Now _you_ are going to tell me where Flamewar is!]

Nightracer went quiet, and Slipstream was afraid the other femme had cut the call. 

[Flamewar was captured by Autobots,] said Nightracer. [We believe they are taking her to Cybertron. Lord Megatron has ordered us to wait to hear their demands before we—]

Slipstream had the odd sensation that her spark had floated out of her frame and she was observing herself from above. Nightracer was still speaking, but Slipstream could not hear the words over the ringing in her audials. 

She cut the call and went over to the cabinet where she kept a few emergency rations. One by one, she began to stack them inside her subspace pocket. 

“Slipstream?” Thunderblast clasped her servos together. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

Slipstream opened her mouth to explain, but the only words that came out were, “I’m going to Cybertron.”

“What? Why?” asked Thunderblast. 

“No time to explain,” said Slipstream, throwing an extra blaster into her subspace. “Emergency.”

“Contrail…?” called Thunderblast uneasily. Contrail only shrugged. 

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” said Slipstream. Mentally, she was already calculating the fastest route to Cybertron. It was too far to fly under her own power, but they weren’t too far from a trading hub where she should be able to get a shuttle to take her the rest of the way. 

If she was very lucky, she could be there in a solar cycle.

* * *

Jazz was infamous among the Decepticons. When Flamewar saw him enter the brig, her spark sank into her fuel tanks. This was going to be extremely unpleasant.

No wonder Firestar had tried to talk her into surrendering. 

“Well, fancy seeing you here,” drawled Jazz. He approached the bars, and Flamewar could see herself reflected in his visor. “Wanna go for a walk?”

Flamewar pursed her lipplates. “Not particularly.”

“Aw, come on. You’ve been in there for cycles. You must be getting tired of it. Come on. Got an energon cube for you and everything.”

Flamewar was not at all fooled by this, but she supposed she was not meant to be. There was no way Jazz really believed that a little bit of playacting would soften her up. He was probably just mocking her. 

“Okay,” said Jazz. “Mind standing back so I can deactivate these bars? Else I’ll have to stun you.”

Flamewar weighed her options, then did as Jazz asked. She did not want to be unconscious around him at any point. 

“Got a pair of cuffs here,” said Jazz. “You let me put them on you and this will all go a lot nicer.”

She did not reply, but Jazz must have sensed her assent, because he strode forward to lock them around her wrists. 

“Let’s get started,” he said.

* * *

Iacon was firmly under Autobot control, and so Slipstream had been extremely careful as she approached the city. The moment that the guard towers came up on her sensors, she’d dropped low to avoid their radar.

The surface was dark and dangerous, but Slipstream knew that the ancient tunnels that had once connected all of Cybertron’s city-states to one another were still there. She could not hope to fly into Iacon, but she might sneak in from below. 

As she began her journey through the ancient tunnels, she regretted that she had left Contrail and Thunderblast behind. She knew that it was probably for the best, that she was less likely to be caught if she went alone. But, like most seekers, she hated being underground. As she made her way through the lightless ruins, she distracted herself from the growing discomfort by scanning for active insecticon hives. 

Slipstream checked her chronometer frequently, fearing that she would completely lose track of time in the darkness. More than once, she found a path up to the surface and followed it, savoring the sensation of being out in the open again, even if her pedes were still on the ground. But every time she emerged, her internal maps showed that she was still too far away from Central Iacon. Time and again, she was forced to retreat back underground. 

Slipstream walked in darkness until she could no longer hold herself upright. Telling herself that she’d be no use to Flamewar if she was dead from exhaustion, she looked around for somewhere safe to recharge for a few cycles. She finally found some ruins that she could take shelter behind and, after setting her proximity sensors to their maximum sensitivity, began a fitful recharge cycle. 

Two cycles later, Slipstream came back online and resumed her trek. She tried her best to move north, towards the center of Iacon where the Autobots’ main base was, but she frequently discovered that tunnels were collapsed or too filled with debris for her to traverse. She found herself doubling back, looping around, and constantly banging her pedes against old stones.

But she couldn’t turn back now. She was already going to be in trouble for abandoning her post. If she returned with nothing to show for it, there was no way she could expect to be forgiven. At least if she brought back Flamewar, there was a chance Megatron would be interested in hearing her side of the story.

According to her chronometer, she had been in the tunnels for thirty cycles when she finally reached central Iacon. Just above her head, she knew, was an entire base full of heavily-armed Autobots and Flamewar.

Slipstream removed a cube from subspace and drained it. Then she readied her weapons. 

It was time for a rescue.

* * *

Flamewar was going to rip that visor off Jazz’s faceplates, shatter it into a thousand pieces, and jam each of those individual pieces as deep into his optics as the laws of physics would allow. At least, that was the plan once she managed to get herself free.

“Okay,” said Jazz in that light, casual tone that he’d kept for the entirety of the interrogation, despite the bloodstained blade in his servo. “One last thing. Then we’ll take a break. Okay?”

“Frag you!” spat Flamewar. This was at least the fifth time he’d promised her ‘one last thing.’ His opinion of her intelligence must have been very low if he thought there was the slightest chance she believed him. 

Five straps held her down to the interrogation table: two for her servos, two for her pedes, and one that stretched across her chassis. No matter how she strained against them, they held firmly. 

“Kay, so, I heard something about some shipments coming in to Chakar,” said Jazz, leaning in conversationally as he twirled the blade. A few droplets of energon splashed on his faceplates. “Only, see, it wasn’t the usual stuff—guns and energon and whathaveyou. I mean, that’s what the paperwork said, but that couldn’t be true. Know why?”

“Frag you,” Flamewar chanted, to get her mind off the blistering pain in the mutilated remains of her arm. “Frag you, frag you, frag you.”

“Cuz the entire loading crew got special new training just to handle these crates, and you guys built new climate-controlled warehouses to store them,” Jazz went on. “Weird, right? I thought it was weird. Am I crazy, or is that weird?”

“Shut up,” snarled Flamewar. “For the love of Primus, just shut up!”

“Aw,” Jazz smiled. “I’m sure you don’t—” But whatever he was about to ask was cut off by the wail of an alarm siren, shrill and piercing. 

Jazz looked up, his lipplates pressing together in annoyance. “Hang on!” he said, yelling to be heard over the blaring noise. “Don’t go anywhere. Gotta see about this!”

Flamewar rested her helm back against the table and cycled her vents. She was not certain if she was glad for the reprieve, however brief, or if she now regretted that there was nothing distracting her from the damage that had been done to her arm. 

Jazz knew what he was doing, though, Flamewar could admit that. His casual attitude was at odds with the meticulous precision that he used to cut through plating and wires without ever accidentally disconnecting a pain receptor or hitting a main fuel line.

Once her arm was completely destroyed, he would move on to the other one. And then after that, well, she supposed she’d find out when they got there. 

Flamewar watched as Jazz went to the door. But as he pressed his servo to the override panel, the door crumpled inward and something sent Jazz flying backwards into the wall. Klicks later, Slipstream forced her way into the room. 

Flamewar decided that she was hallucinating. She’d lost more energon than she thought. Or maybe the Autobots were testing out some new drugs on her. Either way, this was _not_ happening. 

With the door destroyed, the blaring of the siren was almost too loud to stand. Slipstream hurried over to Flamewar and began to unlatch the bindings. 

“What are you doing?” Flamewar murmured. 

“Shh. It’s fine. It’s fine. Damn it!” Slipstream looked back over her shoulder and turned to fire her arm-mounted guns a few times. Then, apparently satisfied with the results, she returned her attention to Flamewar. “Can you hear me? We’re leaving now. Just hang on.”

On the other side of the room, Jazz was moving. Flamewar opened her mouth to shout a warning, but Slipstream was ready for him. She raised her weapons again, fury blazing in her optics. 

“Don’t you come near us!” she screamed. 

“Okay, okay!” Jazz raised his hands. Slipstream held her position for a moment longer, then turned and fired a hole in the wall. Then she pulled Flamewar into her arms. 

“Behind you,” Flamewar murmured. Slipstream spun around to confront the Autobots that had followed after her, and fired twice more. Then she bolted, holding Flamewar so close to her chassis that it hurt. 

“Okay,” said Slipstream as they hurried down orange hallways. “There’s nothing to worry about, but I may have set off the citywide alarm. Don’t panic. We’ll be fine. Just let me know if you see any Autobots. Okay?”

“Primus,” said Flamewar faintly. She wanted to ask how in the galaxy Slipstream had managed to get authorization for her mission, but she was feeling strangely dizzy.

Slipstream fired her weapon again, blasting through a second wall. She said something to Flamewar, but Flamewar couldn’t focus on the words, especially with the endless wailing of the alarms drowning out all rational thought. On top of that, Flamewar felt as though she was on the verge of slipping offline.

Slipstream continued to run, pausing occasionally to shoot at an Autobot or drone, or consult her internal sensors. But then she rounded a corner and found herself staring down a tall red grounder. 

Slipstream raised her weapon again, but Flamewar murmured, “Wait.”

“What is it?” Slipstream asked. 

Flamewar looked at Firestar, who was busy staring, awed, at Slipstream. Her mouth was hanging open a little.

“Let her go,” said Flamewar. “She’s harmless.”

Slipstream didn’t look pleased, but Firestar was already backing away. Then, when she realized Slipstream wasn’t going to attack, she turned and ran. Despite the circumstances of their last meeting, Flamewar felt a little surge of relief. 

“Come on,” mumbled Flamewar, pressing her faceplates to Slipsream’s cockpit glass. “Let’s go.”

Slipstream readied her weapon again and blasted through yet another wall. But instead of more orange hallways, Flamewar could see a grey sky and the silver buildings of Iacon city. 

“Thank you, Primus,” Slipstream muttered, adjusting her grip on Flamewar. She ignited her thrusters and shot off into the sky.

* * *

Shockwave did not seem to know what to make of Slipstream’s arrival at the base, or the fact that Flamewar was half-conscious in her arms. Thankfully, his priority was getting Flamewar to the medics, and he did not ask her many questions—at first.

It wasn’t until after she had been whisked away to medbay that Shockwave turned to Flamewar and said, “What are you doing here?”

“I came to get Flamewar,” said Slipstream. “The Autobots had captured her.”

“Yes, I gathered that,” said Shockwave. When Slipstream did not respond, he flicked his helm-fins and said, “You may compose your report while we await Flamewar’s prognosis.”

Slipstream did not want to write a report. She wanted to be in the medbay, sitting at Flamewar’s side while the medics worked. But she could hardly say that to Shockwave. So she found a spare datapad and an empty room, and settled in to wait. 

In her report, she mentioned nothing of her relationship with Flamewar. She kept it short and clinical: She had received a distress signal. She had verified that Flamewar had been captured. She had come to Cybertron to rescue her. 

None of it was a lie. It just wasn’t precisely the truth.

When she was finished with the report, she delivered it to Shockwave’s office. She’d been hoping that she could escape to the medbay after that, but Shockwave seemed to sense her intentions and said, “Sit.”

And so Slipstream sat down in front of Shockwave’s desk and awaited judgement. 

Shockwave was, naturally, impossible to read. Occasionally his helm-fins would flick, but Slipstream didn’t know how to interpret those. It seemed to take an eternity for him to review the report, and Slipstream could tell he was consulting with someone else over internal comms. Finally, after what felt like three cycles, he set the datapad down on the desk in front of him. 

“I cannot begin to tell you how foolish your actions were,” he said. “You may consider yourself fortunate that you were not captured as well.” 

Slipstream said nothing. 

“You may also consider yourself fortunate that Lord Megatron has chosen not to punish you for your dereliction of duty.” Shockwave’s tone made it abundantly clear that he did not agree with their leader’s assessment, and Slipstream could not completely bite back a smile. “But I can assure you that if this happens again, he will not be so merciful.”

“Of course,” said Slipstream.

Shockwave tapped a stylus against his desk. 

“What I still do not understand,” Shockwave said, “is why you abandoned your post to rescue a Decepticon who is not even assigned to your region of the galaxy. In fact, after reviewing your file, I found that you never served with General Flamewar at any point.”

“Call it sentiment, then,” said Slipstream. 

Shockwave vented very deeply and offlined his optic. For a minute, Slipstream was afraid she had said too much. But Shockwave merely said, “You are dismissed.”

Slipstream hurried from the room, heading directly for the medbay. Nobody stopped her as she rushed over to Flamewar’s side. 

Flamewar’s destroyed arm had been removed, and she was hooked up to an energon drip, but she seemed alright otherwise. Her optics were a little dim, but Slipstream couldn’t see any major injuries on the rest of her frame. 

“Hey,” said Slipstream gently, pressing her servo to the side of Flamewar’s faceplates. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” said Flamewar. “Really. You didn’t have to, to come after me.”

“I wanted to,” said Slipstream. 

“You shouldn’t have left your post.”

“I’d rather regret leaving my post then regret not leaving it,” Slipstream retorted. Flamewar just shook her helm. “I mean it.”

“The Decepticon cause is more important. Surely you realize that.”

“You are the Decepticon cause,” said Slipstream. “You, and me, and everyone else who wears our insignia.”

“Ha. Sentiment.” Flamewar offlined her optics and turned her helm away from Slipstream’s servo, but there was a smile on her lipplates. “Are you being charged with desertion?”

“No, actually,” said Slipstream. “It would seem I’m not the only sentimental one in this army.”

Flamewar was clearly exhausted, and so they didn’t say much else after that. When she fell into recharge, Slipstream remained by her side for cycles until finally one of the medics came to tell her that visiting hours were over. 

Slipstream wanted to spend as much time as possible with Flamewar before she went back to Femax, so she hurried back to the medbay the very next morning. But when she walked through the doors, she was horrified to see Thunderblast and Contrail were standing at Flamewar’s berthside. 

“What are you two doing here?” demanded Slipstream, nearly knocking over a medical cart in her haste. 

“We’re here to take you back to Femax, obviously,” said Contrail. 

“I’m so sorry,” said Slipstream to Flamewar. “Please delete anything they’ve told you from your memory banks.”

“Hey, rude!” cried Thunderblast. Then she beamed down at Flamewar. “I was right, though. She is cute.”

“Going to kill you,” mumbled Flamewar. Slipstream was not sure if this was directed at Thunderblast, or Slipstream herself, or just the universe in general. 

“Okay, give us a breem, will you?” asked Slipstream, pushing her trinemates in the direction of the door. Then she turned back to Flamewar. “I’m so sorry. I know they can be overwhelming. How are you feeling?”

“The medics say they might be able to release me tonight,” said Flamewar. “But it will be some time before they can build me a new arm.”

Slipstream nodded and sat down at the foot of the berth. “Was that the arm from your old frame?”

“What?”

“When you fought Ultra Magnus. You said you lost everything but your arm.” Slipstream nodded at the empty space where Flamewar’s missing limb would have been. “Was it that one?”

“Oh.” Flamewar looked at it. “Oh. No, actually. It was this one.” She tilted her helm in the direction of her remaining arm. “The Autobots haven’t managed to take it from me yet, it seems.”

Slipstream reached out and gripped Flamewar’s servo. “I’m going to miss you,” she said softly. “I’ve _been_ missing you.”

“You’re ridiculous,” said Flamewar, but there was warmth in her voice. “Promise me you won’t do anything like this ever again. You’re no use to me if they execute you for treason.”

“Very well,” said Slipstream, leaning in so that she could press her lipplates to the back of Flamewar’s servo. “As long as you promise me you won’t get yourself captured again.”

Flamewar laughed. “Agreed,” she said. Slipstream leaned down and kissed her. 

“After the war—” Slipstream began, but words failed her. 

Fortunately, Flamewar seemed to understand her meaning. “After the war,” she agreed.

“Something to look forward to,” whispered Slipstream. “I hope it gets here quickly.”

“I hope it gets here at all,” said Flamewar. 

“Shh, don’t say that,” said Slipstream. “It can’t last forever. Somehow, it will end. It has to.”

She could tell that Flamewar didn’t agree, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t going to waste the precious klicks they had together with bickering over something they had no control over. 

Deciding she couldn’t care less about her wingmates, who were still whispering over at the doors, Slipstream folded her wings down and settled down beside Flamewar. 

Flamewar arched an optical ridge at her, “Don’t you have anything more important to do?”

“Absolutely not,” said Slipstream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Megatron Ships It (TM)
> 
> Also, apologies for the DISGRACEFUL amount of time it took to get this thing done. I have no excuse for taking three years to write 10k words.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been sitting on this thing for months, so special thanks to ragnarok89 for giving me that extra push I needed to finally post this! She's got a very short Flamewar/Slipstream fic as well, so check it out if you like this pairing.


End file.
